


The One That Remains

by AceOfShadows



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU - Maglor Lives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complications from swearing Oaths, Gen, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Maglor Keeps His Silmaril, Nightmares, No Sad Beach Ending for you Music Man, Sad Elf does some Repenting, Suicidal Thoughts (mentioned), The Silmarils - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShadows/pseuds/AceOfShadows
Summary: "And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him..."The Silmaril did not burn Maglor, as one had burned Maedhros. But that did not mean he was free of the burden it set upon him, nor the pain of so many past misdeeds.A short introspective What-If piece.





	The One That Remains

_“Since one is lost to us, and but two remain, and we two alone of our brothers, so is it plain that fate would have us share the heirlooms of our father.”_

Maedhros’ words hung on the cool evening air, brittle and cold as the frost of the oncoming winter. Maglor felt his breath catch. He remembers once standing on a beach much like this, watching ships burn. He had been one of seven then, standing with his younger brothers, a shield between them and their father. Maedhros had been by Fëanor’s side, and he had turned, a raw despair had been brightly keen in his eyes.

There was no such despair in Maedhros’ eyes now. Only the adamant soul that had carried them both through so much darkness, through years of war and torment, to this beach here and now.

Maglor looked down at the box he held tightly. What a simple plain thing it was to house the greatest gems the world had ever seen. The cause of so much grief in the world. His fingers hurt from holding the smooth wood so fiercely, but he had been scared to drop it in their flight from Eonwë’s camp. 

“Indeed it does,” he said, willing his voice not to betray him. But for once, it seemed he was short of words.

“Then we are agreed,” Maedhros said, taking the box from him with his good hand. His brother would not meet his gaze. “Each of us shall take one, and then we shall go our separate ways. It would be best, I think, to keep them apart and safe and know our oath is fulfilled.”

Maglor wanted to protest, as he had before their raid on the camp of Eonwë, that he wanted to take the Silmarils and return _home_. To their mother, to await the coming again of their grandfather, and father, and their brothers. To Tirion, not the house at Formenos. His heart was tired and bleak, and he wanted nothing more than to turn back their lives to before that dreadful day that had set them all on this dark road.

But he said nothing, his tongue betraying his will as he watches Maedhros take a Silmaril in his steel-wrought hand (Curufin had made it for him, _before_ —). The grooves in the box are shaped for three gems, but only two had been set in place (the third was known, and was far beyond their reach now), one on the left and one on the right, and the centre slot left empty. Maedhros took the one on the right, and this was fitting, for had he not always been their father’s right hand, as Maglor had been his left? The hand that wields the sword, and the hand that steadies the harp? Fitting too, that the centre had been left empty, for their father, the centre of their lives, was also lost to them.

Maedhros handed the box back to him, and his eyes had softened slightly. “Take it and be well, my brother.” He pressed a soft kiss to Maglor’s forehead, a gesture of kindness and farewell. It brought Maglor no comfort, only a desperate fear that he will never see Maedhros again.

His brother turned away, his red hair loose and unbound washed silver by the light of the moon, and in his hand, the brilliant light of Silmaril blazed through metal fingers. Maglor watched him walk away until the night swallowed his brother and his Silmaril, and the tears had dried upon his face.

*.*.*.*

When Maedhros died, Maglor was aware of it almost as soon as it happened. He felt the rush of heat, his brother’s silent relief, and the sudden searing pain as Maedhros’ fëa left their world. Maglor came back to himself, sobbing and alone as he had not been in hundreds of years.

He had thought—he had _wished_ —

But even after all this time, he had been wrong.

They had not realised on swearing their oath, but it had bound their fëar and their fates together in a way no one had seen before. Each of their brothers had felt the flaming agony of Fëanor’s death. Once could have been dismissed as a fluke, a twisting of the knife that was their shared Doom.

But then, they had all felt the knife of Dior in Celegorm’s chest, the arrow that had felled Curufin, the blade that had pierced Caranthir’s armour. Maglor never said, but he had always suspected that both Curufin and Caranthir had been slain because they had been caught disorientated in experiencing Celegorm’s death. Certainly, it had been Amrod’s death that had caused that of Amras - his heart had given out there and then, his hand outstretched to his fallen twin.

He had thought he would never feel Maedhros’ death. That with their oath fulfilled, they were spared that torture. He had thought they were _free_.

The gem he wore above his heart grew hot, mockingly so.

*.*.*.*

Those who had known Maglor in his youth would not know him now. He wore the simple garb of a traveller, for his armour he had buried on the beach after Maedhros had left him. It had been too noticeable, too much of a target with the bright bold sigil of their House on the breast. With it, he had left the box that had briefly housed two Silmarils, for it had been too cumbersome to travel with.

His twin swords he had kept, for they had been forged for him by Curufin, and found he could not bear to give them up as well as the armour.

He thought often of Elrond and Elros as he travelled, for word of them was freely spoken and easily overheard these days. The sons of Eärendil had become quite famous in their own right, it seemed. But he did not seek either of them out, not Elros the King of his own island of Men, nor Elrond in the lands ruled by Gil-Galad. He was…Orodreth’s son? He found he could not quite remember anymore.

He was loathe to leave Beleriand himself, but he had also heard tale that the land was slowly being abandoned by Elf, Man and Dwarf in favour of the continent over the mountains to the east. The Valar, it was said, had caused too much damage in the War of Wrath in their attempt to defeat Morgoth once and for all. Vast swaths of the earth were rent and broken, rivers dammed and choked with filth, farmlands burned and crops with them. Animals had fled in droves, or had died as the land around them died. And every day, the sea crept further and further up the coast and inland.

There was nothing left for any of them here. Not even for one as broken as he.

*.*.*.*

It occurred to him, more than once, to give up.

_Traitor, kinslayer. Herald of woe and stormcrow. Son of Fëanor._ The voices of the slain mocked him always. He relived Alqualondë and Sirion over and over, both awake and in his dreams, where the ocean foam had been scarlet with the blood of the fallen. The Wars of Beleriad. Doriath. So much death. At night, if he looked west across the ocean, he would sometimes think he saw the phantoms of ships burning where Losgar had been.

He found himself sitting by the shore more than once, imagining himself casting the cursed gem into the sea. He would throw it away today, he told himself over and over, and let the legacy of his father sink to the depths of Ulmo’s domain, out of reach of everyone else that lived.

And then, truly then, he could repent and go home. Build a boat (definitely do not steal) and sail back to Valinor and beg for forgiveness from the Valar. Give them the Silmaril and be free of it. His father would understand—

Water splashed over his boots, an unpleasant chill, shocking him back to reality. The pouch that held the Silmaril was in his hand, arm cocked back to throw. In all these years, he’d refrained from touching or even looking at the Silmaril if he could help it, but still it taunted him.

_What am I doing?_

His arm dropped like a dead weight and he tucked the Silmaril away safely back beneath his tunic. He took a deep breath.

Giving up would be too easy, he knew. Far harder to live, to make amends. Valinor wasn’t going anywhere.

*.*.*.*

He stood at the top of the path that led down to Rivendell, nervous as he had not been since he was a misbehaving young _ellon_ in Tirion, evading his mother’s wrath. Rivendell was beautiful, he noted absently, his foster-son had done well in preserving this place as a sanctuary. 

He sighed, feeling the weight of Curufin’s swords shift on his back. They had seen good use of late, hunting orcs and foul creatures in the wilderness, but now he sought bigger prey.

He had been too late to save Celebrimbor, but now he was fit again, and a rage stirred deep in his belly - a fire lit by Celebrimbor’s death that had fanned his return to warrior fitness. Sauron had dared to show his face again, and he would fear the return of a Ñoldorin Prince in his wrath. He had not been able to avenge Celebrimbor at the end of the Second Age, but he would do so now.

Elrond was planning something, he knew. People had been arriving in Rivendell for several days now, not just Elves but Men and Dwarves and Halflings too. He had seen Lord Glorfindel riding to and from Rivendell of late (hadn’t he been dead? He had heard that before he was sure) as well as Elrond’s sons.

_It is time._

He threw back his hood, his raven-dark hair braided with gold, his grey eyes bright as starlight. And upon his brow he had crafted a circlet and set at its centre was the last of Silmarils.

And so adorned, Maglor the last son of Fëanor, came at last to Imladris.

**Author's Note:**

> Appears after long hiatus, drops angst, and fades into the background again. My work here is done...


End file.
